


Five Times Stiles Told Peter to Do the Damn Dishes (and One Time He Actually DID)

by rightsidethru



Series: Steter Week 2017 [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, Out of all of the chores Peter refuses to do... it's the dishes he has an issue with., Steter - Freeform, Steter Week, Steter Week 2017, Stiles wonders what he ever did to deserve this., The Sheriff gets to make an appearance (and laugh at Peter's pain)., Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 16:30:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12821502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rightsidethru/pseuds/rightsidethru
Summary: All Stiles ever wanted was a boyfriend who actually did the dishes.Instead? He has Peter Hale.





	Five Times Stiles Told Peter to Do the Damn Dishes (and One Time He Actually DID)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KouriArashi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KouriArashi/gifts).



> **_November 25:_ Established Relationship -** Do you want to make a gif set of Stiles and Peter getting married? How about drawing them adopting/having kids? Maybe you want to write about them arguing over mundane domestic issues as they navigate living together. Give us all your established relationship Steter feels.
> 
> *
> 
> ’Peter Ian Hale’ is a nod off to KouriArashi. I don’t know if any other author has taken advantage of the opportunity, as well, but I first read it from Kouri--so pointing my finger that way for the blame/credit. XD Kouri, I was the one who asked if you wanted a Steter or Sterek gif fic; you picked Steter, so... here you go! :)
> 
> I hope that everyone enjoys Day Two of Steter Week 2017. I was definitely amusing myself with this one as I was writing it.
> 
> *
> 
> Kudos and comments are welcomed and appreciated! <3
> 
> *
> 
> http://rightsidethru.tumblr.com/

**Five Times Stiles Told Peter to Do the Damn Dishes & One Time He Actually _Did_**

*

_”Marriage is an alliance entered into by a man who can't sleep with the window shut, and a woman who can't sleep with the window open.”_  
\- George Bernard Shaw

**

**One.**

Stiles woke slowly, comfortable and warm, familiar in his surroundings: the mattress beneath his stomach was a familiar one, soft enough that the amber-eyed teen’s weight dipped into it slightly. The sun was a steady warmth against the bared line of his spine, and he smiled slowly into the featherdown pillow as Stiles felt the first of many stubbled kisses brush against a shoulder.

“Mmm…” he hummed quietly, sound muffled the smallest amount as he burrowed his way deeper under pillows and blankets both. Peter chuckled quietly at the confirmation that the younger man was finally awake, shifting to press down over Stiles’ lanky form. Teeth scraped playfully over the meat of the other’s shoulder, the ‘wolf’s weight pinning Stiles completely to the bed now, and the teen knew that his skin was blushing, reddening immediately beneath the sandpapery brush of Peter’s kisses.

“Good morning, Stiles,” the werewolf rumbled against the shell of Stiles’ ear, and the whiskey-eyed teen could feel the solid, thick line of Peter’s erection shifting to press against the curve of his ass as the older man began a lazy, slow-motioned rut. At one particularly slow grind, the ‘wolf’s voice dipped lower as he murmured against Stiles’ ear: “Feeling up to a bit of fun?”

Stiles groaned low in his throat, fingers digging in deep into the sheets beneath him—not bothering to hide, either, how his hold went white-knuckled and desperate. “Peter…” the teen husked, lashes fluttering as the boy forced himself to open his eyes, gaze hazy as he stared at the opposite wall from their bed. “W-wanna know what you can do to _really_ make me moan…?”

He could feel the curve of Peter’s smile widening, going predatory at the thought of making a kill: fangs pressing the faintest of kisses against the thin skin pulled taut over Stiles’ throat. “And what’s that, sweet boy?”

The teen’s vision cleared abruptly, and Stiles twisted just enough beneath Peter to shoot a truly formidable, disgruntled scowl the ‘wolf’s way. “You can go and do the dishes that you’ve been promising to wash for _three days_. _That_ will one hundred percent get me all hot and bothered, Peter.”

 

**Two.**

“Stiles! You made it,” Malia greeted cheerfully, smile wide and pleased upon her face. She paused in the middle of washing the leftover dishes used during dinner, drying soapy hands to tug Stiles closer and into a tight hug. Not all animal instincts had left her, even years later, and as they pulled apart, she shifted just enough to ensure that the edge of Stiles’ jaw brushed over the top of her head—subtly scentmarking, reassured by the sense of _Pack_ that the gesture left behind, and the smile she offered the other teen was even more settled than the one previous.

“Of course we came,” he corrected her gently, mouth crooked and affectionate as the werecoyote perked up even more at the confirmation of the bonds between them: of reassurance and belonging. “This is your first apartment—which means that you _definitely_ need to have everyone throw a housewarming party for you, Malia. Free leftovers for days and getting presents of things you no longer have to buy yourself.”

She preened at that, pleased with herself and subtly standing taller in her confidence of that; the pride—and rightly so—that she had learned enough, adapted enough, progressed enough from when the others had first found her: barely functional to the point that the Tate patriarch had felt like he had no other choice but to put her in Eichen House, struggling to readjust and find some sort of foundation to cling to… and here, now, she had managed to juggle all of the normal, standard societal expectations and was _renting her first apartment_.

Squeezing her shoulder once more, Stiles headed back into the living room to retrieve the gift that he and Peter had brought, offering the older ‘wolf a dirty look as the blue-eyed man handed off a new set of cookware and a gift certificate to the local furniture store.

“What?” Peter asked, taken aback by Stiles’ suddenly ugly expression and immediately running through the list of recent things he had done that the other could have caught him at—though, granted, most of them Stiles would have rolled his eyes about because _morally grey_ was a rather telling descriptor for the Spark.

“Your daughter,” Stiles began, dark scowl pulling further at the corners of his mouth, “who was raised by _literal coyotes_ , I might add, was finishing washing her dishes. Within the same day of her using them. How long have ours been sitting in the sink?”

“Yes, well, I was raised by _wolves_ , sweetheart.”

 

**Three.**

One day, Stiles returned home from a full course load of classes to discover that their apartment was crawling with repair and installation men. Curious as to what Peter could have possibly ordered that he didn’t have previously—a rare occurrence that made holidays and birthdays a true horrorfest of panic and despair and resignation that the teen was buying something for the man _who literally had everything_ \--and so Stiles followed after the assembly line of workers as they eventually led him to the kitchen and the disaster zone it had become.

The whiskey-eyed teen stopped in the middle of the doorway, surveying the whirlwind of chaos that was somehow comprised of a variety of tools, spare and essential parts to various electronics and motors, what appeared to be twelve thousand miles of hose, and Peter—who sat perched upon one of their dining table chairs, overseeing the work being done like a king surveying his land.

Eventually, Stiles’ attention returned to the sink full of dirty dishes, and the teen shook his head in what he hoped was disbelief but felt more like stunned acknowledgement at how his partner truly _was_ that desperate to avoid doing such a stupid chore.

“…you bought a dishwasher so that you could continue to avoid doing the dishes,” Stiles stated, already wrapping his mind around the concept of acceptance because—well, with Peter, the teen had quickly learned that there was little else he could truly do. Not and still remain sane (and happy).

Peter glanced sidelong at his lover, expression smug at knowing that he had finally pulled enough of a trump card that the dishes would still get done now—and he wouldn’t be the one doing them. Not by hand. “Does it matter?” the ‘wolf asked in turn, smirk sharp and pleased and superior enough that Stiles wanted to punch him in his pretty face. “They’ll still get done.”

The teen shook his head at that and retreated from the kitchen, padding on silent feet towards their bedroom so that he could get started on an upcoming mid-semester project—resigned, as well, to the fact that, even _with_ the dishwasher’s aid, there was very little chance that the dishes would _actually_ get cleaned. Ever.

**

Less than a week later, their apartment got bombed by an extremist hunter group, leaving everything both Peter and Stiles had owned less than ash and soot. Thankfully, neither man had been home at the time—but it had still been a jarring experience, returning home to flames and the sense of violation and loss that had immediately crashed into them both. For Peter especially, though nothing had shown within his expression except for that first flicker of devastation. 

It went without saying that the dishwasher hadn’t yet been used.

 

**Four.**

Stiles was half convinced that Peter was trolling him at this point, but then the older man would do something in turn and the teen would realize that, no, he wasn’t being pranked—the ‘wolf just hated doing dishes _that much_. The breaking point where he considered just throwing his arms up in the air and giving in came when he arrived home after a grocery store run, arms full of bagged food, and stumbled across the sight of Peter gingerly picking up their old, unwashed dishes before dropping every plate, each piece of silverware or utensil used, into the trashcan that he had dragged over to the sink for this very occasion.

“What.”

There was no tone, no inflection, to Stiles’ voice: just a flat, 100% done _what_ as another ceramic plate went tumbling down into the can below, breaking into a multitude of pieces with a sharp _crack!_ as it connected with other bits of crockery. 

It was to the point that Stiles wondered if he was dating an honest-to-God alien (and since Mulder had always been the teen’s favorite, perhaps that wouldn’t have been the sort of travesty it could have otherwise been if Scully had been Stiles’ Number One) or if Peter had always been so immersed in a Kardashian sort of lifestyle that this sort of thing just didn’t _compute_ for the ‘wolf.

“Why. Why is it so impossible for you to do the dishes, Peter. Why,” the teen stated, despair and resignation both thick within his voice as another dish made a pointed _thunk_ as it landed within the bin. Stiles looked towards the heavens, hoping for some sort of salvation or resolution to the problem before him—but no answer came except for another muffled _crack!_ as yet another plate made the trash can its new home.

Silently, he pulled out his phone to glance at the time, weighing whether or not they’d have enough time for a stop at IKEA once Peter was done—or if Stiles should just bite the bullet and get out the paper cutlery and order fast food _now_ so that they could actually eat once the older man was finally finished.

(Chinese won out.)

 

**Five.**

Peter smiled wolfishly at the jury, gesturing towards the defendant and his attorney, pleased at the scent of blood in the air: the opposing side was losing and they knew it, fear and stress flavoring the courtroom with a tangible sort of memory that the blue-eyed man had missed desperately in all of the years he had been in a coma and then labelled as MIA after his death and resurrection.

His smile broadened even more, though the charm was carefully layered as the ‘wolf directed his attention back to the judge, heading in for the kill: “As you can see, Your Honor, Mr. Hewitt was fully aware of his actions—pre-meditation readily apparent when you consider the timeline, as well as realizing what punishment awaited him should he be caught since this is _not_ his first appearance in this courtroom—and should thus be penalized to the fullest exte—“

_Arooooo!_

The ‘wolf froze, arctic gaze flickering towards his briefcase set next to the table. He opened his mouth to continue, tentatively hoping, praying to a God that he had long ago stopped believing in, that no one would comment on the howl—a pipedream hope, he already knew, considering the court’s rules, but hopefully if he continued on with the train of his argument, it would get overlooked.

_Arooooo!_

Peter closed his eyes.

_Arooooo!_

_Arooooo!_

_Arooooo!_

And resigned himself to the fact that it was now inevitable that he’d be losing this case—just as likely, too, that he’d be held in contempt of the court as the wolf howl continued to play over and over _and over_ again.

_Arooooo!_

_Arooooo!_

“Counsellor,” the judge began, interrupted, as well, by another mournful _Arooooo!_ that echoed through the expansive space that the courtroom provided. A person could have otherwise heard a pin drop, waiting with baited to see the newest drama play out before them. The case was all but forgotten, left in the dust as the prosecuting attorney’s phone continued to howl at a moon that was not present. “Were you not warned to _turn off your cell phone_ before the courtroom doors closed?”

“Yes, Your Honor. You did-- _Arooooo!_ \--in fact instruct us to do so.”

_Arooooo!_

“If that is the case-- _Arooooo!_ \--Counsellor-- _Arooooo!_ \--then why is-- _Arooooo!_ \--your phone still-- _Arooooo!_ \--going off?”

Peter wanted to say that it was because Stiles must have had a premonition of the divorce papers that the ‘wolf was fully planning on sending him now, meticulously drafted as he rotted away in his cell tonight, but—no matter how tempting the thought may currently be—the blue-eyed man still loved the little shit.

“I have no explanation that I can provide to you, Your Honor, and I can only express my humblest apologies for this breach in both professionalism and expected conduct while standing before the bench.”

_Arooooo!_

…even while Peter contemplated murdering him, as well.

Needless to say, there was little enough that Peter could do as the bailiff gathered together the lawyer’s belongings, phone still going off like clockwork, and escorted the ‘wolf out of the courtroom and towards the county jail across the street; the case was in tatters and while Peter could hope that he would somehow be able to argue himself back into a win… he acknowledged the fact that this would probably be his very first loss in his entire career. With any luck, it’d be his _only_ loss—but with Stiles as a mate, perhaps it was time to let his perfect record go (if only for the _knowing_ sort of resignation that this would most likely _not_ be the only time that something similar would happen again in the future).

Thankfully enough, there were some perks to having the Beacon County Sheriff as a father-in-law: Noah allowed Peter to glance through his phone before it—and the remainder of the ‘wolf’s belongings—got put away with the rest of the inmates’ things; the older man did little enough to hide the laughter that kept escaping past him in stuttering, wheezing snorts—and Peter knew, too, that this would be a story that would be passed around and retold during all of the major family and Pack gatherings for _years_ to come.

However, as the ‘wolf scrolled through the plethora of text messages… the contemplation of murder became more and more appealing.

**

_r u freakin kiddin me peter??_

_srsly. how did u survive on ur own???_

_u totally had a cleaning service didn’t u._

_WE R NOT GONNA HAVE A CLEANIN SRVICE PETER._

_WE R COMPETENT ADULTS._

_WHO DO THE FUCKIN DISHES!!!!!_

_srsly tho_

_why. why do u refuse to do the damn dishes._

_it’s one damn chore. 1. ONE!!!111!!!1!_

_THEYRE DISHES. AND I REFUSE TO BUY MORE JUST CUZ U REFUSE TO WASH THEM PETER IAN HALE._

_u WILL do the dishes tonite._

_or i wont make u any dinner. bc i already know the threat of The Couch doesnt faze u at all (bastard.) so instead u can STARVE. like BELLE DID. and ill YELL AT U THRU THE DOOR WHILE (DIRTY) CUTLREY KEEP U COMPANY. metaphorical or otherwise. bc i have magic n can totally make it happen. n i will do this until u comply with my demands._

_which is doin the freakin dishes PETER IAN HALE._

_DO U HEAR ME???_

_oh hey. just noticed the time._

_hopefully u remembered to turn off ur phone before the trial began._

_or that my WELL DESERVED anger didnt trigger weird magic-y things with ur tech. like that time with the vibrator._

_otherwise this is going to be v. v. v. awkward for u_

_esp since i think u told me u have that stick up the ass judge today._

_good luck!! love u, u non-dishwashing bastard!!_

*

_AH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!111!!!!_

_dad just texted me and said u were in lock up._

_’contempt of court’ huh??_

_DID U FORGET TO TURN OFF UR CELL PHONE??_

_u did didn’t u._

_either that or karma decided to smite u thru my Spark-y might. honestly dont know which option is more appealing tbh._

_love u and ill see u in the morning when i come to spring u from the clink._

_& when we get home u can do the damn dishes._

\\(*3*)/~♥

♥♥♥♥♥

 

**\+ One.**

Stiles came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the gleaming, bleached white—and _empty_ , most importantly of all—sink that resided proudly, front and center, amongst everything else in the room. The counters were absolutely spotless, some dishes were set in the rack to dry while others had obviously been wiped down with a towel after washing to be put back in the cupboards just overhead.

Slowly, the amber-eyed teen turned on a heel to glance over at Peter--who tossed a sly, wickedly smug Stiles’ way as the ‘wolf stepped into the kitchen, as well, trailing after the teen with an intent sort of expression Peter just barely managed to keep reigned in, though he did a poor job in doing so, anyway.

The Spark glanced between ‘wolf and sink and back again, expression absolutely bewildered, and then suddenly gathered a ball of pure magic—force, nothing more, nothing that sang of finesse or preparedness—in the palm of his hand; he threw it, too quick to be avoided, and watched as it slammed into Peter’s torso. The older man was lifted off of his feet, tossed back through the air like a ragdoll with body spinning like a top before finally crashing against the living room’s far wall.

Later on, when the villainous flavor of the week had finally been dealt with and banished back to the shadows it had originally crawled out of, Peter turned his attention to Stiles, eyebrows furrowed in confusion and silent contemplation as to _how_ his mate had _known_ that something was off. The teen had been the first one of the Pack to cry foul, had done everything and more to dig to the bottom of the newest issue—and he had been right, though no one knew what had originally tipped the amber-eyed boy off initially to the newest supernatural problem.

“How did you know?” the blue-eyed ‘wolf eventually asked, curiosity getting the better of him—as it tended to do.

Stiles glanced up from his Advanced Microbiology text, yellow highlighter carefully held between his teeth as he marked up the book in preparation for an upcoming final. Blinking in confusion for a moment or two, the teen quickly caught on to the reason for Peter’s inquiry and slowly smirked up at the ‘wolf, expression both sharply amused and unrepentantly fond—and feral, too, in its promise of violence. 

“How did I know—that you were possessed, zombiewolf? You finally did the damn dishes, Peter.”

::fin::


End file.
